His slender finger lingers in my mouth. Instinctively, I suck the sweetness off, then turn away, wiping my mouth with a dishcloth. Slow. I remind myself, I’m going slow. Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be fair to Frank not to. But his easy way is like his cooking, and I can’t help but want more. “Good?” I can feel his determination not to push; he’s smiling, so at home in the kitchen. He pours a little lemon juice over the peaches and puts them in the refrigerator. “Let’s get started on the rest of the meal.” He shares his secrets—how he gets the fried okra so good, the boys are picking at the platter like it’s filled with cookies; what makes his mashed potatoes so delicious, I can hardly remember Rosa Lee’s. He instructs me and watches me carefully, not in a seductive way. But when we touch or I taste something that is good down to my core, I feel drawn to him in such a way that it’s easy to forget the boys and the bachelors are waiting on their dinner.
